


A Final Request

by hungry_hobbits



Category: BioShock 1 & 2 (Video Games)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-03
Updated: 2019-04-03
Packaged: 2020-01-04 07:46:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18339254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hungry_hobbits/pseuds/hungry_hobbits
Summary: Jack can't leave Rapture without making one last stop.





	A Final Request

**Author's Note:**

> This takes place before Jack leaves Rapture when you can visit Cohen's apartment in-game. I've changed some things about the situation/encounter (namely putting Cohen in place of the Splicers) to make it a bit easier to write.
> 
> (Cohen is my favorite character in the series so let's hope I did him justice!!)

_S. Cohen_. That was what was engraved on the plate above the door. It was shiny and untouched, it felt out of place amongst the dilapidated state of Rapture. It seemed odd, almost inappropriate despite it all, to visit Sander Cohen in his private domain. His apartment in Mercury Suites had been locked when Jack first came across it, probably to keep thieves and splicers away while the artist lurked and rampaged in Fort Frolic. He wasn’t sure why he wanted access into Cohen’s space. _Bit of curiosity never hurt_ , Jack mused.

He could hear music coming from behind the door. The tinkling of piano keys accompanied by soft laughter. It was all muffled by steel and iron and decay, but it was there. With a rush of notes, Jack was immediately reminded of Fitzpatrick and his unfortunate end. _The poor bastard_. Jack waited by the door, waited to see if Cohen somehow _knew_ he was there and would invite him in with the unpredictable flair he seemed to approach all visitors… but there was nothing.

Jack went in without knocking, afraid that doing so might disturb whatever scene was taking place inside. The door opened to a foyer, and Jack was instantly met with an illuminated poster of Sander Cohen’s face; a promotion for his latest album. He peeked behind it and saw into the darkened room; Cohen, hunched over his piano. Whatever he was playing had come to a stop.

 

“There you are, little moth. I was wondering when I would hear your wings fluttering in my home. _Flip flap_ , _flip flap_.” Cohen’s voice was airy and calm, no hint of anger much to Jack’s surprise. “Come in, come in.” Jack made his way down the steps, closer and closer to the artist, but stopping a few feet short of him and his instrument.

“Did you enjoy my _Scherzo_? Fitzpatrick’s attempts did it _no_ justice. I’m sorry you had to hear it played so poorly.” He let out a long and rather dramatic sigh, “But you know what they say – if one wants something done _right_ , they must do it _themselves_!”

Jack nodded despite being at Cohen’s back, “It sounds like you’ve put a lot of work into it.”

“I have! At least _someone_ around this dreadful, wet mess understands my efforts.” Cohen let out a haughty laugh, “You would think a place like this, devoted to _geniuses_ of the sciences and the arts, would understand the pain and turmoil that goes into _creating_ art. But all they want to do is consume. Like a beast at the belly of a dead zebra, they feast and _they feast_ then sit there licking their bloodied chops wondering when the next meal will arrive.” There was a force to the artist’s voice now. Every emotion was heavily emphasized when it was spoken by him. It unnerved Jack, to be around someone like him.

“But alas, you did not come here to listen to a tirade about the injustices put upon me.” Cohen turned his body and craned his neck to offer Jack a wistful gaze while his fingers rested on his piano’s ivory keys, “Are you leaving us so soon, Jack?” He turned back to his sheet music, a soft smile on his face that went unseen by the man behind him, “How unfortunate. It feels as though you had only just arrived…” He raised a hand in the air lazily by his head, “As though you had only just entered the glow of _Rapture_ , little moth.”

His fingers made a fluttering motion, “And now you fly. _Fly_ , _fly_ , _fly_ away back to whence you came. Back to the surface with you.”

“How did you know?”

“I know more than I let on, sweet boy.” He gently plinked at the keys, no real pattern or reason except to fill the silence, “I know that your time here has finished. You were not meant to linger long in this place.”

“And what will happen to you?” Jack took a cautious step forward. “Will you stay?” It was odd, after everything that had happened, that he cared about the potential fate of Sander Cohen. He was a murderer, wildly unhinged, completely dangerous and yet in some naïve way Jack found himself worrying over him. Maybe in some selfish way he wanted Cohen to live so he could know about Ryan before the downfall. _Not that it really matters now_ , Jack’s brow furrowed for a moment, _I’m not really a Ryan…_

“I suppose _whatever_ fate befell Ryan will befall me in some way or another. Is that why you have come? To play angel of mercy?” A bitterness to Cohen’s voice made Jack regret the decision to come closer.

The artist shook his head, “No I do not think I will leave. There is no place for me on the surface anymore. I am not who I once was. My visions, they are far too grand for such a common stage. They won’t understand what I’ve done, what I’ve become, what I’ve _ascended_ to. And everyone knows that the most unreliable narrator is the _self_.”

 

Cohen stood and turned to face Jack, prompting him to retract the step forward he had previously taken. “I have but one more request before you go. I will understand the hesitancy and if you say no I will understand that as well. But consider it the request of a dying man, if you like. My final swan song.” The artist crossed the gap between them so that he was but a few inches away from Jack entirely. Jack was close enough that he could see there had been a shift in the color of the artist’s eyes since they last spoke, a side effect he learned had came from ADAM usage.

“…Does it involve murder?”

“It does not! Surprising I know! Not that you should be talking, dear boy…” Cohen’s red painted lips twisted into a smile that could very easily under the right circumstances be misconstrued as menacing, “No, no. No bloodshed tonight, hopefully.”

Jack grimaced slightly then nodded, “What do you want me to do?”

“I have never painted an angel.” Cohen’s eyes sparkled, “Allow me that honor. Let me paint _you_.”

“You… want to paint me?” _It couldn’t be that simple. Could it?_

“I do. I think it will be wonderful for the both of us. A closing of our shared chapters.”

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to write Bioshock fic after first playing the game so many years ago, but I never felt confident enough to do so. I suddenly got inspiration for this a few days ago, so excuse any inaccuracies and my excitement!!
> 
> Comments are incredibly appreciated!
> 
> [ hungry-hobbits.tumblr.com ]


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